


When In Skyhold

by theDeadTree



Series: Hawke Stories [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hawke finds himself meeting the new Inquisitor, he's forced to confront his failings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When In Skyhold

Wide eyes watched me carefully as the Herald of Andraste took a moment to carefully consider everything I’d told him. For what seemed like an eternity, he just stood there, struggling to process the reality of the situation. I couldn’t blame him. In his place, I wasn’t sure I’d manage the same composure.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was silence as he staggered back a couple of steps and I watched him impassively as he struggled to keep up with it all. He didn’t seem to quite know what to do with himself. He was dazed, disorientated, still struggling to assert reality after what I’m sure has been a few thoroughly traumatic weeks – in the wake of a few thoroughly traumatic months, in the wake of a few thoroughly traumatic _years._ Nothing about what I was saying made it any easier for him, either. I knew that.

I hated knowing that.

He’d been Inquisitor for maybe all of a day – declared the leader of all these tired, battered soldiers and terrified civilians who’d taken refuge in a crumbling castle. It was a massive weight, and he obviously wasn’t ready to bear it. He looked panicked, exhausted, on the verge of collapsing.

And dammit, he looked so _young._

Too young to be doing this. Too young to be involved in this – in the war, in the political bullshit he was doomed to be mired in for who even knows how long. The longer I watched him, the more certain I became that he wasn’t a soldier. Wasn’t a fighter. He’d probably never even seen _real_ violence until a few years ago. Probably never saw this kind of thing coming. Never prepared for it. Never thought to. Never had any reason to.

Now what is he? A saviour? A hero sent with divine sanction to fix a world that has already fallen to pieces? How is that supposed to help? How is that kind of pressure supposed to achieve anything beyond completely destroying a young man who’s been through too much already?

“I…” he began slowly, jerkily. “Thank you. There’s still so much I need to do, but…I’ll look into this.”

“Let me know,” I called after him as he made to leave.

He didn’t stop, didn’t turn to face me, just kept moving further away. Too much on his mind, I guess. He seemed so overwhelmed already.

Too young, I thought, keeping my eyes on his retreating back. Inexperienced, unprepared, ill-equipped. And he knows it.

That’s the worst part.

He knows what’s being asked of him. He _knows_ it’s beyond him, and he’s going to try anyway. He knows that he has to. There isn’t anyone else who can.

“How old is he?” I called to the dwarf as I watched the Herald of Andraste – the _Inquisitor,_ I corrected myself – make his way along the battlements until he disappeared from view.

Varric Tethras didn’t look up. “Mm?”

“How old is he?” I repeated quietly. “Mid-twenties, or thereabouts?”

His eyes narrowed slightly at my words and his expression became pensive. “He’s twenty-four, so yeah, thereabouts. Why?”

I shook my head and leaned on the parapet, staring mindlessly out over the courtyard that was slowly but surely being cleared out to make way for the crowds of frightened refugees. People displaced by a war I had an active part in starting, their attempt at picking up the shattered pieces of their lives destroyed by an evil I thought I’d killed. Somehow, I’d gotten it into my head that we were past that brief period of history where absolutely everything of any importance somehow managed to be my fault.

“Twenty-four,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “That’s too young. That’s _way_ too young.”

That would’ve made him, what, twenty? Twenty-one? Barely old enough to be considered an adult, when the rebellion began.

“You were younger than that when I met you,” Varric countered, focusing entirely on finishing the bottle in his hand.

 _“I_ wasn’t some scared kid everyone decided to put in charge of an army,” I argued. _“Or_ a divine saviour.”

He chuckled. “Don’t say that around him. I doubt he needs another existential crisis today.”

“Maker’s _balls,_ Varric. Did you _see_ him? He’s a _wreck.”_

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re being strangely protective of someone you met something like five minutes ago.”

It was just a playful jab, and I knew that, but somehow it didn’t stop me from bristling. I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. I suddenly found myself not in the mood for anything. I couldn’t even bring myself to pretend to be happy. Couldn’t find a joke. Couldn’t find anything to laugh at to diffuse the tension at least a little. Not like before. It was all so easy before; now I can’t even do what used to come so naturally to me.

I let out a quiet groan and pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a long, sharp exhale.

Sweet Maker, I’m turning into Fenris.

Given the frankly absurd amount of time I’ve spent in close company with someone with that much pent-up angst, some of it was bound to rub off on me eventually.

That, or the past few years really were as bad as the pessimist in me has been saying.

 _Your fault,_ some snide corner of my brain reminded me. _All your fault._

“He’s a mage,” I managed finally, after what felt like an eternity.

Varric barely reacted, if at all. “I noticed.”

“Circle?”

He nodded. “Ostwick.”

I let out a tired sigh. “That’s what I thought.”

Varric, obviously deducing where the conversation was headed, let out a long sigh. “It’s not your fault.”

I shook my head and pushed myself back from the parapet, whirling around to face the dwarf, eyebrows raised incredulously. The reasonable part of me knew that Varric was right, that I did everything I could back in Kirkwall. The reasonable part of me knew that what happened to Meredith, to Orsino…to Anders…was out of my control. The reasonable part of me understood that.

The _reasonable_ part of me has never been a particularly dominant part of my personality.

But there he was. The Herald of Andraste, a perfect example of everything I’d managed to accomplish. Here was one more mage whose life was completely destroyed, thanks to how it all went down in Kirkwall. A kid who’d been dragged into _my_ mess and was now expected by absolutely everyone to fix it.

How did I manage to screw up _so badly_ that the Maker Himself decided to bring in someone who’s barely an adult to put it all back together?

What else was I supposed to _do?_ Okay, maybe I left Kirkwall a burning wreck and everyone in it waist-deep in corpses, but what choice did I actually have? Sit back and watch? Defending the mages from a lunatic Knight-Commander seemed like the right choice. To me, it was the _only_ choice.

It all seemed like such a good idea at the time.

I should help where I can. I do have such a _brilliant_ track record when it comes to helping resolve political problems, after all.

 _Go on,_ I thought to myself ruefully. Keep being sarcastic. One day it’ll make all your problems go away. Or make you so desensitised to the horror that is apparently being alive at this point in history that you won’t care next time everyone goes insane and starts killing each other.

I have to wonder how long until that happens, and hope the Inquisitor – who doesn’t appear to be able to handle his _lunch_ at this point – is prepared to handle it when it inevitably all falls apart.

I am so _tired_ of watching people die because of me.

“I started this,” I murmured.

“I don’t recall you blowing up the Chantry.”

“But I _am_ the one who helped the mages rebel,” I replied, my tone dull and quiet. “Which, oh yeah, led to a war across Thedas. When should I expect a knife in the back? Or at least a punch in the face?”

“Don’t hold your breath, Hawke.”

I let out a dissatisfied grunt at his answer and returned to staring mindlessly out over the main complex of the ancient mountain fortress people appeared to be calling Skyhold.

Every problem Thedas was facing these days could somehow be traced back to me. I knew that. I’d spent four years on the run while the world fell to pieces around me because of that. Even things I didn’t think were problems anymore now threatened the very fabric of reality. Just when I thought things couldn’t get much worse, people start coming back from the dead. I didn’t know magic could _do_ that.

Is there a single rule that magic can’t break?

He was dead.

He was _supposed_ to be _dead._

I killed him.

I _remember_ killing him.

There are no words for how disconcerting it is when someone you distinctly remember setting on fire and watching die shows up a few years later like nothing ever happened.

 _Did_ it ever happen?

Am I going _crazy?_

I can’t tell anymore.

“He was dead,” I murmured. “He _was_ dead, wasn’t he? Tell me he was dead and I didn’t just imagine the entire thing.”

“What are you on about now?”

 _“Corypheus,”_ I had to stop myself from outright screaming. “Why would you even need me to clarify that? Who _else_ did I fail to murder properly?”

With my luck? Everyone I’ve ever killed, probably.

That would be _so_ awkward.

Varric sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Hawke – I was there, same as you. He was dead.”

“Apparently not dead enough.”

“Yeah, well, no one expected the ancient darkspawn magister to be immortal.”

I groaned loudly, raking my hand through my hair. “When you say it like that, we really should’ve expected it.”

But I hadn’t expected it. I don’t know what I was thinking would be in Varric’s last letter when it arrived, I just felt relieved that it had come at all. Then I actually _read_ the thing. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what it said. And just like that, it was over. Four years of running and hiding and killing and sleeping on the ground in the middle of Maker knows where, and that was it. I was being dragged back into the thick of it all over again.

As nice as civilisation is, I’d be lying if I said I was _happy_ to be here.

It never ends, does it?

I let out an exhausted sigh and ran my hand through my hair, trying to somehow relieve the frankly absurd amount of built up stress.

“Fenris is going to murder me.”

Varric’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Oh, this I _have_ to hear. What’d you do to piss off Broody this time?”

“What _didn’t_ I do to piss off Fenris?” I asked wistfully, before my face twisted into a mock scowl and I tried to imitate the elf’s low, gravely tone. _“We should leave, Hawke. You should keep your head down, Hawke. You’re not funny, Hawke. I’m still somewhat mad at you for protecting the mages, Hawke.”_

Varric chuckled. “I notice he’s not with you.”

I glanced away. “I tried to convince him it was in his best interest to stay behind. It was quite the argument.”

_“Tried?”_

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Tried.”

That was all Varric really needed to know. Anyone who knew anything about Fenris could probably piece together the rest of it. Because anyone who knows anything about Fenris knows that he is a surprisingly deadly combination of _idiot_ and _overprotective._

I am right, I reminded myself. If I’d let him come with me he’d get himself killed and I just can’t live with that as a possibility. I am right. It’s to protect him. He knows that. He _will_ know that. One day. And hopefully he won’t spend the rest of both our lives hating me for it. He’s been through so much already. I’m not going to put him through more.

Ugh, I’m pathetic. When did I get so sappy?

I’m going to have to punch a wall just to feel manly again.

I can’t think about this anymore.

“The tavern here any good?”

Varric shrugged. “It’s not the Hanged Man, but it serves the purpose.”

I nodded. “Right. Well. If you need me, I’ll be drowning myself in alcohol and ignoring my problems.”

“And then what?” he called after me as I turned to leave.

I let out a huge sigh and ran a hand through my hair, which was surely a complete mess thanks to years of being on the run and not particularly caring about my appearance. No one expects the great and terrible Hawke to look like a bedraggled, crazy vagabond, after all. All part of my genius disguise.

“Then onwards to Crestwood, I imagine,” I said with a small sigh. “And I help clean up the mess that I started.”


End file.
